


Collegiate Supernatural Hijinks

by mieraspeller



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: College, M/M, Mates, Virginity, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 06:13:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/782737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mieraspeller/pseuds/mieraspeller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles and Derek are both assholes. And Stiles hates his life. </p><p>Mostly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Collegiate Supernatural Hijinks

**Author's Note:**

> Reposting from the teen wolf kink meme, originally [here](http://teenwolfkink.livejournal.com/7250.html?thread=6152786#t6152786). The original prompt was:  
> I would love for Derek and Stiles to be soul-mated but Stiles has no idea and when he tries to hook up with someone else gets PHYSICALLY ILL right before doing the act. He has no idea what is going on, he just wants to get over his (he thinks) one-sided love-affair with Derek and it's NOT WORKING. Hilarity and miscommunications ensue.
> 
> There are vague allusions to Kate Argent related non/dub con.
> 
> If there are any warnings you think I should add, just let me know.

Stiles has been pack for a long time, okay? He’s been through shapeshifters trying to take over their territory, a group of seriously code breaking hunters they’d taken down in tandem with Allison and her dad, not to mention all the shit that went down before they were even officially a pack. So if he wants to go out and try to finally get rid of his virginity now that he’s not constantly being judged by nosy ass Alpha werewolves, then he is perfectly able to do so. It’s not like Derek has to do more than look at someone to get sex, there’s no reason to push his self enforced celibacy on the rest of them. 

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea,” Isaac says. He sounds nervous, eyes darting around and flaring gold for a second before he gets control again. 

“You don’t have to come,” Stiles tells him firmly, and zips up his jacket. He gets in his Jeep and Isaac makes a low whining noise in his throat before darting around to the other side and getting in the passenger seat. 

“This is such a bad idea,” Isaac complains again, and his hand is inching towards his pocket. Stiles reaches over and, in lieu of a glare (eyes on the road!) he pokes Isaac’s thigh, hard. 

“No. If you call Derek, I swear I’ll throw your phone out the window.” He’s not sure exactly what Derek has against the pack having fun now that they’re out of high school, and he’s still not entirely convinced that Isaac choosing the same college as Stiles was done entirely because of their veterinary program, but it is _not on_. Not tonight. 

Isaac slumps back in his seat and crosses his arms petulantly. “Fine. But he’s gonna be pissed.” 

“He can be whatever he wants, I don’t care.” Isaac snorts. And okay, maybe that’s not entirely the truth, but Stiles’ hopeful sexual exploits aren’t exactly pack business. Or Derek’s business. He’s made that clear enough. 

They have to find parking a couple streets over, and Isaac trails along after Stiles like a sulking five year old until they reach the club. The line is ridiculously long.

“It’s one in one out. You’re never getting in,” Isaac says, sounding relieved. Which is insulting if not untrue under normal circumstances. Stiles has an in, though -- or, his roommate has an in, by virtue of being the bartender’s younger brother. It’s surprisingly easy to get in, though he’s a little worried about that blonde girl four back from the front of the line. She looked like murder would be an acceptable payback for Stiles getting into the club before she did. 

Whatever, Stiles has Isaac to protect him. He goes straight to the bar to give his required drink order plus twenty dollar tip combination to Brian’s brother. Isaac pushes after him, still radiating guilt. 

“It’s too loud,” Isaac complains. “And this drink sucks. We should go home.” 

Stiles tries to sidle away, but Isaac keeps following him. It only takes him ten minutes of listening to Isaac’s diatribe against dancing, music, and clubs in general before Stiles has enough. 

“Oh my god, you sound like every adult character from Footloose!” Stiles exclaims. It shuts Isaac up, because he has an unholy crush on Kevin Bacon’s character, which is great, because _holy complaining werewolf, Batman_ , and makes him storm back to the bar for another drink, which is even better. It gives Stiles enough time to escape to the dance floor. 

The combination of illegally obtained alcohol and sweet freedom is enough to make him loose and unself-conscious of his dancing, and he manages to catch the eye of a girl nearby. He’s pretty sure he recognizes her from his Freshman Lit. class. 

A couple drinks later, and she pulls him into the darkened hallway to the bathrooms. Which Stiles is totally cool with. They’re making out, and Stiles is trying to think of a not creepy way to ask if she’d like to go somewhere with less chance of involuntary exhibitionism when she slides her hand into his underwear. 

Which, awesome! But also, not awesome, because Stiles apparently overdid it a little on the alcohol, and has to run for the conveniently close bathroom before he throws up on the first person besides himself to touch his dick, _fuck his life._

Isaac finds him in the bathroom twenty minutes later. 

“What happened?” he demands, and Stiles sort of waves pathetically at the toilet. 

“Dunno. I guess I drank more than I thought?” He doesn’t feel drunk, though, which is a shame. He could really use that handy alcoholic fog to make him feel less pathetic. “There wasn’t an angry blonde in the hallway was there?” Stiles checks, and Isaac frowns at him until Stiles gives him an awkward shrug and lets Isaac help him to his feet. Stiles’ stomach settles a little at Isaac’s touch and he groans in frustration. He’s pretty sure that girl is never going to speak to him again. Great. 

 

Isaac is suspiciously unsympathetic as he drives them back to campus. 

“So, I guess that was a bad idea, huh,” he says from where he’s followed Stiles all the way back to his room. Stiles rolls his eyes and shuts the door. 

A second later he gets a text from Isaac saying, _Let me know if you want to go out again!_

Ahaha. No. 

He calls Scott, ducking back into the hallway so he doesn’t wake up his roommate. He and Brian have a system, and it involves revenge when woken up. Stiles isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to top putting peanut butter in Brian’s shoes, and he really doesn’t want to find out. 

“Wha?” Scott answers, and Stiles ignores the sleepy concern in his voice to launch into the whole story. 

By the time he gets to the part where Isaac finds him in the bathroom, Scott is making suitably sympathetic noises. 

“And then Isaac drove me home and now I’m having an existential crisis. Maybe I’m not bi? Maybe I’m gay, and my subconscious was all “NOOOOO” and thought that barfing everything in the world ever would make me see the error of my ways!” 

“I don’t think your subconscious is in control of your gag reflex,” Scott says, and Stiles groans. 

“Wow, thank you so much. Please tell me something helpful. Or at least reassuring.” 

“Maybe you just had too much to drink?” Scott offers. Stiles scoffs. He’s pretty sure he drank more than that in high school without throwing up. “Food poisoning?”

“I did eat tacos in the cafeteria today,” Stiles remembers. “That could have been it.” It’s not said with much conviction, but Scott agrees with him, tells Stiles better luck next time, and hangs up. 

Stiles trudges back into the room and falls back onto his bed, ignoring Brian’s snores. He’s pretty sure, now, that it wasn’t drunkenness that had him worshipping the porcelain gods. The tacos are definitely a possible culprit, but something in that explanation still isn’t sitting right with him. Mentally. He feels bad about running away from the girl, but right now, he feels worse about his dick. 

He doesn’t want to risk it tonight in case the mysterious ailment strikes again, but there’s a number in his phone from last week, from a guy in his Bio Lab. The guy -- Jon? -- was putting off some super douche bro vibes, which had made Stiles reluctant to call him, but he was hot, and it’s not like a booty call means he has to put a ring on it. 

Seriously, what’s the likelihood of a repeat of tonight’s disaster?

 

Pretty fucking likely, apparently. He goes over to Jon’s apartment after a few text messages. It’s a little nerve wracking, and Stiles spends a few terrible moments trying to get the words “Baby’s first booty call” out of his head, but makes it to Jon’s place without incident. Stiles’ memory was totally correct. Jon is seriously ripped. He looks like the stereotype for California guys -- sun bleached hair, tan, serious ab definition. It’s hot, Stiles can admit. And he’s nicer than Stiles had thought at first, too, offering to call for takeout first and not laughing at Stiles when he accidentally knocks his teeth into Jon’s. 

It’s nice and Stiles decides he won’t hold the fact that Jon’s not a werewolf with stupidly attractive eyebrows against him. Jon actually wants to do sexy things with him, unlike others who shall remain nameless. 

They kiss for a long time. Besides the girl from the club, and a couple of drunken kisses spurred by a terrible game of ‘I Never’ in high school, Stiles hasn’t really ever even kissed anyone, let alone gotten to just make out with someone. 

He thinks he’s finally gotten the hang of not slobbering all the over the place when tongues are involved, and gets as far as a hand up Jon’s shirt, when the desperate urge to throw up hits him again. 

“Oh, fuck,” Stiles manages, thanking everything ever that they passed the bathroom during the pseudo tour on the way to Jon’s bedroom. He shoves Jon off of him and rolls off the bed, racing down the hall. The door is kicked shut behind him just in time and oh, god, it’s like his entire body is rebelling against sexual congress. _Again_. But without the buffer of alcohol. He kind of wants to die. 

Once he’s stopped retching, he hears a tentative knock on the door followed by, “Uh. Dude, are you okay?” Jon sounds genuinely concerned, and Stiles feels kind of bad for thinking he was a douche before. 

“Food poisoning,” Stiles says, because he hasn’t got a better explanation. It’s not like he can say, oh, sorry, I touched your chest and then had to puke. Not cool. Self esteem issues forever. He gets up and runs some water in the sink, ducking his head under the tap to slurp up enough water to rinse his mouth out. 

“Do you want some water?” Jon offers, and now Stiles feels like even more of a dick. A glance at the mirror shows his face looks pale and strained, but the nausea has receded enough that he feel safe to open the door. 

“I should probably go home,” he says. “I don’t wanna...” he trails off and Jon claps him on the shoulder sympathetically. 

“No problem, man. But seriously, call me if you want to hang out another day.” 

Stiles nods, even though he has no intention of doing so. Feeling perfectly fine before and after violent emesis? Not normal. 

 

After a long self pitying sulk, Stiles decides more research is needed. Brushing up against people leaving class is easy enough, and doesn’t cause him to feel sick. But unfortunately he doesn’t exactly have a line of people waiting to make out with him, even for research purposes. Just a college full of strangers and one pack member. 

Make that one easily bribed pack member. 

“This is a terrible idea,” Isaac insists. He’s back in Stiles’ room, clutching a bag of chips like a shield. “You said we were going to play Call of Duty and order takeout.” 

“Which we can totally do! After one tiny favor.” Stiles gives Isaac his best pleading face, and Isaac crumples. 

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you,” Isaac tries. “Maybe those were just... the wrong people!” 

Rolling his eyes to the ceiling, Stiles says, “Thanks for the pep talk, dude. But this is serious. I refuse to allow my body to stop me from having sex.” 

Isaac cringes. “Maybe you should ask Derek.” 

“Ha.” Stiles eyes him suspiciously. “Do you know what’s going on with me? Oh my god, is this some sort of werewolf curse?” he demands but Isaac is already frantically shaking his head. “Fine. This is for science,” he reminds Isaac, then leans up onto his toes to plant one on him. 

Isaac rears back immediately, but Stiles is already fleeing the room to the bathroom down the hall, hand clapped firmly over his mouth. 

 

When he gets back to his room, Isaac is sitting on his bed, tapping at his phone. 

“It’s getting worse,” Stiles tells him, then groans. “Tell me you’re not texting Derek.”

“Um...”

Literally seconds later, Stiles’ phone is ringing. He glares at Isaac then before he accepts the call. 

“What’s wrong?” Derek demands, before Stiles can say anything. 

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the fact that I can’t even get to first base with someone before I toss my fucking cookies. What the fuck is this bullshit? Am I cursed? Am I dying? My dick is about to fall off from sexual frustration, okay?” Stiles is pacing now, glaring at everything, and Isaac is curling up tighter on his bed. 

Derek is suspiciously quiet. The kind of quiet that means he knows the answer, but he also knows that Stiles is really not going to like it. It makes him swallow nervously. 

“Am I cursed?” Stiles asks again, with less volume but considerably more panic. “Seriously, Derek, you have to tell me.” There’s more ominous silence and Stiles makes an impatient noise. 

“I have to go,” Derek finally says and hangs up. 

Stiles is too stunned for a second to even react, until the fact that Derek just _hung up on him_ really sinks in. “What the fuck? Asshole!” he yells into the phone. Isaac coughs and hurriedly offers to go get Stiles soup when he glares at him. 

“I’m not sick,” Stiles tells him. 

“Are you sure?” Isaac asks, and Stiles glares at him. Isaac drags open the chip bag, turns on the television, and curls up on the corner of the bed with a distinct lack of helpfulness. Stupid fucking werewolves. 

He slumps down on his bed, because fuck. He’s maybe-cursed, and definitely unable to even kiss someone. Fuck his fucking life. 

Stiles spends a couple seconds wallowing and letting Isaac pet his hair distractedly, because his throat and his stomach muscles ache and the whole thing seems to be getting worse -- from actual dick touching, to barely rounding second base, and now a practically platonic lip brush sets him off?

Then he picks his phone back up and pushes number three on his speed dial to call Dr. Deaton. Scott lost the right to that after the third time he hung up on Stiles in a life or death situation, and Derek is stuck at four because while he always answers, he’s kind of a sarcastic bastard, and Stiles has trouble reading his voice as easily as his face. His dad is two, obviously, and since Dr. Deaton is basically the only thing that has kept this pack of miscreants from dying a million supernatural deaths, he gets the next number in Stiles’ regard. 

“I think I’m cursed,” is what he opens with, because it’s good to lay your cards on the table with Dr. Deaton. 

“I see. And what are your symptoms?” Straightforward. Another reason that Deaton was bumped over both Scott and Derek on the speed dial list -- after that summer Stiles spent hanging around the office trying to drag every bit of information on werewolf and other supernatural things from him, he’s a lot less secretive and hand wavey. Maybe it started out to make Stiles leave him alone faster, but whatever. They’re bros now. In magical education at least. 

“Extreme nausea whenever I’m about to get … eh... physical. Like, I kissed someone and literally had to puke. This is the third time it’s happened, and Derek is being completely unhelpful.” 

The laughter is seriously excessive, but Deaton is still the best, because he’s emailed Stiles three sources to check out and given him an excellent solution for getting puke stains off shoes in less than five minutes. 

“Feel better now?” Isaac asks, and Stiles narrows his eyes at him. 

“No. I’m going to figure this shit out and I’m going back to that fucking club,” Stiles says, and pushes Isaac out of his room when he tries to argue. 

Stiles is fairly sure he hasn’t ingested any faerie blood recently. The second site he checks has a list of symptoms right up his alley, but he’s never been possessed by a demon, so that’s probably out, and the last one is just ridiculous. Because if he had a fucking soul mate, he’d have had some actual _fucking_ by now, right? 

Right?

He pokes around the internet for a while longer, trying to find an alternate solution, before he gives up and calls Lydia. 

“Hey, so do you feel sick if you kiss someone who’s not Jackson?”

“I told you never to drunk call me,” Lydia tells him and Stiles groans. 

“I’m serious. I can’t get past first base without literally having to run for a toilet. I puked on my favorite shoes, okay, this is serious.” 

Lydia is silent for a long moment. A really long moment. Stiles knows how fast Lydia’s brain works, and if she’s stumped, then he’s fucked. 

“Maybe you should check with Deaton,” she tells him and Stiles squints. He knows that tone. That’s the voice she used when she dragged him into the girl’s bathroom the day after the whole kanima debacle finally resolved itself into a slightly less deadly werewolf shaped Jackson and told him, surprisingly gently, that she was never going to be into him. 

“I already did,” Stiles says, trying to keep the suspicion out of his voice. First Isaac’s weirdness, then Deaton’s crazy laughter, and now Lydia being nice? Some shit is up. 

“I can take a look over what you have?” she offers, and Stiles wishes she was here so she could appreciate how hard he is side eyeing her right now. 

“You know something,” he accuses, and Lydia snorts. 

“I know a lot of somethings. And you would, too, if you got your head out of your ass.” 

Wow, a whole two minutes of full on nice Lydia. That’s probably a record. He hangs up on her, because he’s not in love with her anymore and doesn’t have to do what she says. Also she’s in Boston and can’t kill him from there. 

If Stiles hadn’t legitimately been into the girl at the club and Jon, he’d give a little credence to a non-supernatural reason. But he wasn’t remembering anything traumatic, he wasn’t sick, he wasn’t even drunk. There is no reason for this nonsense. 

He thinks about calling Lydia back again, maybe try and wheedle some answers out of her. But figures she won’t pick up, since he did hang up on her. Instead he does what he does best: researches. 

 

 

Unfortunately, Stiles’ alarm clock has no appreciation for how hard Stiles is working. It wakes him up at eight thirty, and he has to sprint across campus in the first clothes he found to get to his Calc Recitation. He can’t even sleep there, because the TA is evil and will dock grades if he thinks someone’s attention is slipping. 

Derek calls him after class to ask if he’s okay. 

“I’m still working on it,” Stiles tells him. “I refuse to die a virgin. I have plans, lots of sexy plans, okay?” 

There’s a grunt, which Stiles knows is Derek for “get to the point, Stiles.” 

“So, I’m going to figure this shit out. And then I’m going to have sex. All the sex.” 

"Good luck with that," Derek says in the least enthusiastic voice Stiles has ever heard from him. And he's including the time they had to kill Peter again.

Derek doesn’t sound totally convinced of Stiles’ well-being when they say goodbye, but that may have more to do with Stiles’ sleep deprived rambling. 

He shuffles on to the library until his next class to get in some more research. He’s been looking forward to the alleged glory days of sexiness at college since he was thirteen, he wants this shit resolved as soon as fucking possible. 

Coming up with a list of supernatural entities that have mates is... enlightening. In that there is exactly one entry on the list, and it begins and ends with werewolves. There’s a lot of extraneous mythology around it, but it boils down to there’s a werewolf out there destined for a lifetime of Stiles, and he’s already met them in some capacity, otherwise the whole no touch reflex wouldn’t be triggered. Which is apparently different for everyone. He’s actually kind of glad he ended up with puking. Boils on his skin wherever someone not his mate touches sounds about a million times worse.

It shouldn’t surprise him. Pretty much every fucked up, weird thing in Stiles’ life has been tied to werewolves. Sure, there’s been some good stuff, too, along the way. He’s pretty determined to make this one of the latter. 

Obviously Isaac is out, what with the vomit adorning his lovely shoes. The only other werewolves he knows are his pack (he’s pretty sure Boyd and Erica are out -- he’s heard things that he can never unhear, but none of those things were either of them being unable to have so much sex that even Stiles could smell it from the next room), and the two packs they’ve negotiated with in the past for Scott and Isaac to go to college in their respective territories. 

From what he’s found, werewolves finding their mates isn’t super common, so he’s pretty sure if some dude or lady werewolf suddenly found themselves incapable of touching other people in a non platonic way, they’d have found Stiles already. According to Deaton’s notes, anyways, there’s apparently an... aroma that makes the mate finding thing easy on the werewolf’s part. 

Which is bullshit and speciesist, and totally unfair, if you ask Stiles.

But it does narrow down the range. He’s pretty sure he only knows one werewolf who is emotionally fucked up enough to ignore Stiles’ awesome scent in favor of lurking forever and slash or dying alone. To listen to Stiles’ rants about dying a virgin and not say a fucking thing. To completely shut down Stiles’ fairly obvious crush with a few crushing words of his own. 

Fuck. 

 

Stiles considers driving down to Beacon Hills then and there. It’s Tuesday, though, and he does have class. And Isaac would freak out if he couldn’t find Stiles to check in at least once a day. 

Plus, if he’s wrong. Well. It would be pretty embarrassing. 

So, Stiles waits. He makes plans. He makes preparations. He ignores all of Derek fucking Hale’s calls and makes a list of every insult he’s missing out on using because of it. 

It’s not exactly a surprise when Derek bangs on his door the next afternoon. He’d texted Stiles three hours ago saying that if he didn’t call him in the next five minutes then Derek was going to drive up to yell at him in person. 

Maybe not in those exact words. 

But he’s pretty sure he got the gist right. 

Stiles stands up and opens the door. Derek face shifts from worried to annoyed so quickly that if Stiles hadn’t been dealing with Derek Hale’s face for the last three years, he’d probably have missed it. As it stands, he takes a step back and tries not to smirk when Derek tries and fails to cross the threshold of the room. 

“Oh, my bad,” Stiles says, in the least apologetic tone he can manage, toeing the tape covered line of mountain ash blocking the doorway. He steps out into the hallway, brushing up against Derek when he doesn’t get out the way fast enough. 

“Why aren’t you answering my calls?” Derek demands. Quietly, though. Stiles does a quick mental review of the various tacks he’d thought of taking with Derek in the day and half he’d had to plan, before shrugging innocently. 

“I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to talk to other werewolves anymore.”

Derek’s eyes do that hilarious thing where they’re almost perfectly round. He kind of looks like a Disney princess. Then his eyebrows draw down again, and the moment is lost.

“What are you talking about?”

Stiles takes a precautionary step away before he speaks and Derek’s face goes tight. It’s not an expression that Stiles can interpret, so he forges on. “Well, I figured out what was wrong with me, and I thought I should probably wait until I found out who my mate is, first.” At that, Derek blanches. Stiles pretends not to notice. “Since I’ll probably have to join their pack. I thought maybe it was that guy -- Cody? From the pack in San Francisco?” He did think about it, briefly, so it’s not even a lie. But Derek still isn’t saying anything. 

“That’s how it works, right? You don’t get any of the ‘symptoms’ until after you meet them? So I figure it’s gotta be someone in that pack. If it was someone in Terence's pack, they would have found me already, right? It’s been nearly a week since that girl at the club, and those are the only werewolves I know, besides you guys. Unless it’s an omega --”

“It’s not.” Derek’s voice is rough. He takes a step toward Stiles. “You know it’s not.” 

“I don’t know anything, because you didn’t fucking tell me,” Stiles retorts. His voice cracks in the middle of it, and he crosses his arms. Derek looks betrayed, but Stiles _feels_ betrayed. He’s Derek’s pack, his friend, he’d been half in love with him since Derek finally put on his big boy pants and stopped telling everyone he was the Alpha, and actually worked to be a good leader. After Derek told him in no uncertain terms that it wasn’t going to happen, he’d tried to forget about it -- but it’s not like Stiles has the greatest track record for getting over someone. “It’s not like I would have said no. We could have been -- Jesus, months ago!” 

Derek is quiet for so long, Stiles thinks he might fly apart from sheer annoyance right in the doorway of his room. 

“I wasn’t sure,” Derek finally says, low and rough. “I’ve never. Since. She --” his voice is halting and he flinches back when Stiles touches his arm. Stiles yanks his own hand back, tucks it safely in his pocket. Tries to make his posture unaggressive, undemanding. How Derek acts with the pack has changed so much from high school that Stiles sometimes forgets about all the horrible things that have been heaped on him. He clears his throat.

“You don’t --” 

“There are certain plants that can mimic the scent,” Derek says flatly. Stiles tries not to follow that through to the only conclusion that makes sense, but for once how quickly his mind can connect the dots is a curse. 

“Derek...” Stiles says. He feels gutted. He wants to drag Derek into a hug and then raise Kate Argent from the dead just so he can kill her again. He must have said some of that out loud, because Derek is shaking his head and pulling Stiles against his chest. “I’m sorry,” he gasps, winded by the sudden move. “I’m kind of an asshole, which I guess sucks for you--”

“I’m kind of an asshole, too,” Derek interrupts him. Which is true, Stiles can’t disagree there. He makes a humming noise of assent once he gets his breath back and Derek sighs. “You should have someone better.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Stiles tells him immediately, voice mild. “My original plan involved punching you in the penis, don’t make me reconsider.” 

There’s a choked off laugh and Derek nods against his shoulder, taking in a deeply suspicious breath that Stiles suspects may be more about Stiles’ mate-ly aroma than any sort of emotion related breathlessness. “Okay.”

“And there’s going to be dating. It doesn’t have to be like, right away or anything, but soon.” 

“Okay.” 

“If you’re cool with that,” Stiles hastens to add. It would really suck if Derek wasn’t, but he’s not going to be another person rolling all over Derek’s ability to say no. 

“I am,” Derek says, and Stiles grins into his shoulder. “You’re okay?”

“I’m awesome.” Stiles corrects. “This is going to be totally awesome.” 

Derek pulls back, cups Stiles’ face in his hands. He’s smiling. It’s a little weird, but Stiles smiles back. Then Derek leans in and presses his lips against Stiles’. It’s soft and way more gentle than he’d ever imagined Derek’s kisses to be. It makes him hope that he’s not actually going to die a virgin, and he tries not to laugh at Derek’s face when he tells him that. Stiles breaks the line of mountain ash, and they play Call of Duty and then Derek demonstrates his newfound resolution to matehood by letting Stiles try his damnedest to leave a mark on him. With his mouth.

And Stiles doesn’t feel even a little sick.


End file.
